road rash
by niagaraweasel
Summary: The aftermath of one of Chance's escapades...


**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

**A/N: for cedricsowner. Without her invaluable help and encouragement this story would never have been posted.**

At the ding of the elevator, Ames looked up just in time to find a very disheveled Chance stumbling out. He looked like one of the extras in a disaster movie – clothes torn, arms severely grazed, deep scratches showing through the tears in his t-shirt and jeans.

"Holy smokes, what happened to you? You look like that grandma from Dante's Peak after she had jumped into the acid lake!" she said, already on her feet and moving towards him even before the elevator doors had closed all the way.

Acid lake? Yep, that was exactly how he felt right now, pretty much every inch of his skin seemed to be burning like hellfire. All he wanted to do was take a shower, slap some band-aids on the worst scrapes and forget this day had ever happened. What he most certainly did NOT want was Ames going all mother hen on him. While her bedside manner was slightly less hippopotamus-y than Ilsa's, he could do very well without it right now.

"I got attacked by moths. Giant, mutant, junkie **moths**!" he growled, futilely hoping to scare her off as he headed for the stairs, trying not to limp too badly.

Ames went to collect a first aid kit from the nearest stash.

Chance was sitting on the side of his bed, struggling to pull up his torn shirt, when she arrived upstairs. Wordlessly batting his hands away she carefully lifted the hem of the shirt to find a pretty large number of bloody scrapes and abrasions. Definitely road rash and from the look of it, it had to hurt like hell. She wouldn't be able to pull the shirt off without causing Chance more considerable pain. What the heck, the shirt was torn and ruined anyway, so she decided to just grab a pair of scissors from the kit and simply cut it off. The two halves fell open to reveal a couple more bloody scrapes across his chest.

Ames gently pulled the pieces of the shirt off Chance's shoulders, then turned him around to check his back, finding even more road rash there. Some of it seemed to be continuing way below the waistline of his jeans… It looked as if Chance had slid a pretty long distance across asphalt more or less on one side and then started to tumble end over end for a few yards more.

"Think you can get rid of the jeans on your own, while I get some water to clean those scrapes?" she asked, heading for the bathroom. Chance's only answer was an indistinct grunt which could mean anything or nothing.

When Ames came back a minute later, however, Chance was still sitting on his bed – wearing his jeans. Ames sighed in exasperation at his way too familiar display of stubbornness. Well, she'd start with the visible scrapes first and get to the rest later. Putting the bowl on the nightstand beside the first aid kit, she dunked a washcloth in the warm water, wrung it out and started to clean the first of the scrapes.

"Seriously, Ames, I can do that alone." He tried to snatch the damp cloth from her fingers, wincing at the pain the sudden movement caused.

For the second time in a few minutes, Ames batted his hands away. "No. A) because I know you won't, B) because you can't reach your back on your own and c) you should move as little as possible. Doctor's orders."

"**Doctor's** orders?" Chance snorted. "And just where did you get your medical degree from?"

"From the C & G School of Emergency Medical Care" Ames retorted drily.

Chance decided to accept temporary defeat and submitted to her ministrations. For a while Ames managed to work in blessed silence, only broken by an occasional groan or hiss from Chance when she started to dab antiseptic on the cleaned scrapes. His willingness to comply soon came to a crashing halt, though.

"Okay, now are you going to get out of those jeans, so that I can see to the rest of the damage?", Ames asked.

Chance just pressed his lips together and shook his head like a stubborn five-year-old.

"You want me to get Guerrero up here to help you? Or maybe Ilsa? I think I just heard them come back….". Another silent shake of the head was the only answer she got, although this time it was accompanied by something that could almost be called a look of panic.

"Well, then I'll just have to do it myself", she said, undoing the button on his waistband and pulling down the zipper. She hoped that he would get the hint and do the rest himself, which – oh wonder of wonders – he reluctantly did.

The skin of the front of his legs wasn't too badly damaged. The sturdier fabric had held up better than the thin cotton of the t-shirt, so there were just a couple of smaller scratches that were quickly dealt with. Once Chance had painfully rolled over on his stomach however, Ames saw that his backside – literally – had not fared so well.

"Erm… Chance…."

Something in Ames' voice made Chance crane his head back to throw her a look of suspicion. Ames pointedly eyed his briefs, specifically the areas were blood was leaking through the fabric.

He shook his head. "Nope. Not going to happen. They're staying on."

Ames rolled her eyes in total exasperation. Like a mother with a five-year-old stubbornly resisting eating his vegetables. "GUERRERO", she called. "Chance needs help removing his underpants!"

_Told you so___said the look on her face.

Okay, _so_ not fair bringing out the big guns like that….

Chance couldn't remember if he had ever seen Ames quite so determined. Well, he could be determined, too. When she reached for his underpants he started struggling.

"GUERRERO! He just won't stay still!" Ames called out.

"That's what these were invented for…" came the laconic reply as a pair of handcuffs landed on the bed beside him with a metallic clatter. It spoke volumes of Chance's state that he hadn't heard his friend coming upstairs.

"You're not seriously….", he snarled.

But of course Ames had already snatched them up. "Ilsa, I need the extra pair from downstairs as well, could you get them for me?"

"You do know that we do not have a set of keys for those, Ms. Ames", Ilsa answered. At least, Chance told himself, he had heard _her _coming.

"And that would be a problem because….?" Ames asked back.

"Good point. Do you think the handcuffs will be enough or should I go look for some duct tape as well?"

Okay, that did it, she just _had_ to be kidding. There was no way Ilsa would seriously go through with a plan like that. Guerrero, yes, in a minute, but Ilsa….

"Nope, no duct tape. Not with that much raw skin. But didn't we have some Ketamine left?"

"We should have. If not, I'm sure Mr. Guerrero can arrange for a replenishment."

Guerrero, leaning in the doorframe and watching the whole scene, content on munching whatever leftover Chinese he had managed to find in the fridge, grinned.

"You know, we could just get Carmine to sit on him. That would definitely prevent any further movement", Ilsa suggested.

"Or Winston..." Guerrero chimed in. "That would prevent you from having to disinfect every single scrape again, and since you used up the last of that special stuff Dr. Grace left us... You know, the one that _doesn't_ sting like crazy..."

Suddenly they all started fading away, like images on a screen in a cinema when somebody turns on the ceiling lights.

Chance woke up, realizing that he had been dreaming. His vision swam, his head felt like it was about to explode and only gradually the events of yesterday evening came back to him. He had slid a pretty long distance across asphalt more or less on one side and then started to tumble end over end for a few yards more. When he had come back to the empty office he had felt like having fallen into an acid lake. Overwhelmed from the pain he had collapsed on the floor.

Groaning from the effort he reached for his cell and speed dialed Ames. "I could do with a bit of help here", he mumbled.

At the ding of the elevator, Ames looked up just in time to find a very disheveled Chance lying on the floor in the lobby. Guerrero and Ilsa arrived two minutes later.

"You won't need no handcuffs", Chance croaked.

Boy, he must have received a bad blow to the head, too.


End file.
